Like You Used To
by Hardwood Studios
Summary: Watson thought himself irreplaceable. Sherlock proves him wrong, yet again, by acquiring a handsome new flatmate. Much jealousy and scheming ensue, with Holmes in the middle. [John/Sherlock]


_A/n: New obsession! Sherlock Holmes, yo! And when I obsess, I obsess hardcore. I've watched the new movies (with our dear Mr. Downey and Mr. Law, who I kind of want to shrink down to mouse-ish size and keep stowed away in my pockets at all time for my own personal amusement) about a hundred and one times, and I have this urge to burn all my clothes and then replace them with Victorian style men's clothing from the 1800's (with a colorful, modern twist). I already have checkered rainbow suspenders and a sweet top hat. _

_Hopefully this is a fairly fresh idea. I've only read one another story with the same type of plot, but...mine is going to be better...I surprisingly don't hate Marry at all (crazy, right? I'm pretty much the Conductor of the Slash Express, and it's like my __**job **__to hate on every female love interest). She's sweet and intelligent, and Holmes really did deserve that wine in the face. It's not her fault that Watson was having a midlife crisis and couldn't see that his place was alongside our favorite maddening Detective. So there isn't going to be much - if any - Mary bashing in this; I'm going to try to paint her as the sorrowful yet understanding wife (eventually ex)._

_If it wasn't already obvious, there's going to be an OC in this. I know some people don't much care for OC's, I certainly don't, but give him a chance. He's very sexy, and damnit, that should be reason enough. This is most likely going to be a chapter story, but I can't promise regular updates. My interests and obsessions change almost constantly. _

_The name of this story is inspired by the song 'Feral Love' by Wakey! Wakey! and a youtube video called 'Holmes/Watson: are you happy?' by VilyaXxXoilwyna (...I think...). Both the song and video were beautiful and inspiring, and I would definitely recommend you watch/listen to them._

* * *

The clang and clatter of silverware against fine porcelain dishes was deafening. They had nothing to say. John felt the urge to clear his throat just so the quiet would be broken, but feared tipping the precarious balance they've settled into. One wrong word, one wrong _sound_, might set off the clock.

He glanced at his wife through shuttered, tawny lashes. She sat at the opposite end of the dining table - the farthest seat from his own - and took delicate, measured bites of her roasted duck. Her eyes were fixed on the pristine linen of her favorite tablecloth. She was perfectly content to ignore his existence. He was content to do the same. Forks scrape against plates. His appetite was slipping with every bite he took, a churning, nauseas pit left in its place.

_Clink_. He set his fork down. Mary looks up sharply, her eyes like bright lightning. "You've barely touched your food." A thinly veiled command. He returns her gaze evenly. "I seem to have lost my appetite." Her face goes cold and hard like cobblestone under the snow.

"You haven't eaten since breakfast, John." Her patience is growing brittle, he can see it in the tense set of her mouth. "It was a rather large breakfast, Mary." Yet he pushes anyway. Her fingers are tightening around her tableware, the pale skin of her knuckles pulled taut and translucent. "Roast duck and artichoke is your favorite. That is why I spent all evening preparing it."

"I apologize, dear." He says with little sincerity.

"An apology will do nothing to keep your food from going to waste."

He _wants_ to feel the sloshing of guilt behind his breastbone. But the guilt doesn't come, just as it never comes. A sigh gets caught up in his lungs and he pushes away from the table, the rasping of wooden legs against mahogany floorboards echoing like boulders down a mountain side.

"Where are you going?"

"The study."

She doesn't respond, and it's something of a relief.

Three months. That is how long it took for their marriage to completely disintegrate. What he mistook for love was just a passionate desperation for normalcy. The quiet humming of his wife to fill the rooms, the excited pittering of small feet down the corridors, the rumbling wispy breaths of a sleeping Gladstone, chops sizzling on the stovetop, flames sputtering wantonly in the hearth. _Normal_.

Normal was what he wanted. _Mary _was what he wanted. To live happily and quietly at Cavendish Place, not having to worry about stray bullets or haphazard experiments. Not having to fear for the life of his dog on a daily basis, or wondering about the whereabouts of his favorite shirt. Not having to consider the possibility of his premature death upon waking each morning. This was what he _wanted_.

Except it wasn't.

He _wasn't _happy, he was downright _miserable_. Cavendish Place was one of clipped and calloused words, averted eyes and avoidance. He relished a chance to escape, and dreaded the inevitable return. It was a maddening and utterly wretched way to live, and he _longed _for something he dare not name. _The pungent aroma of tobacco and old books, dust motes and a smoky haze, withered hands pouring a favorite chamomile brew into cracked cups._

Home is eccentricity and danger, perceptive brown eyes and a tucked-away-innocence. A bow being scraped across delicate strings before the sun can arise, and chemical explosions shaking the floor beneath his feet. It terrifies him and nauseates him and racks him with guilt, because _now _he knows.

Sitting alone in his study, he drops his head into the too hot palms of his hands. He _knows _what he wants, and it resides at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

It takes him two days to scrounge up the courage. Two miserable days.

He stands on the familiar stoop of 221B, and his chest tightens. _Glass lantern dangling between arching iron bars, trodden stone steps, chipped charcoal door._ And then panic sets in. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of his dearest friend in two months. It was like thirsting to death. He grew more and more thirsty with each passing day, just a drop would satisfy, but his own cowardice kept him tethered down.

He chose to leave this life behind. To leave Holmes behind. He didn't deserve to come simpering back to Baker Street, not when Sherlock had pleaded with him to stay.

After their last and seemingly final parting, Holmes made no attempt to get in touch. Not a single tarriance or rumpled letter. It was a justified silence, but that made it no less painful.

What would he say? After a stony farewell and two months of dead air, a simple 'Hello, old boy' wouldn't do. Perhaps he should begin with an apology for his unnecessary absence. Perhaps he would fall down to his knees, groveling at Holmes' feet, and beg for his old room. Watson breathed through clenched teeth. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps he wasn't strong enough to keep together.

He spares the familiar door a wary look. "Just ring the bell." He rings the bell. A shrill chime is heard through cement walls, and Watson anxiously awaits the appearance of Mrs. Hudson. Not once has Holmes bothered to answer his own door. For the first time, he is grateful. The wait is a brief one, and the door is snapping open with a protesting croak. It is not Mrs. Hudson that greets him.

It's a man.

Tall enough that his head brushes the top of the door frame, and his torso spans the width of two men. Thick, swooping hair. Sooty, green eyes. Thin, curling lips. Watson gapes. "Who are you?" He sounds a little offended, even to his own ears.

He chuckles low. "I could ask you the same. You are the stranger standing on my stoop, after all."

"Your-? You mean to say you live here?" His voice pitches higher in his disbelief. A quirked brow and the hint of a grin. "That is what I mean to say. Were you expecting another?" And damnit, if the ponce doesn't sound amused. Watson frowns. "I-...No, there must be some mistake. Perhaps I have the wrong flat." He glanced up at the lantern. 221B cackles down at him from its glass pane.

"Perhaps. This would be 221B, my good man."

Watson bristled. "Yes, I can see that for myself. I've made no mistake, this is the right address."

"And who is it you expect to find here?" He crosses bulging arms over the far reaching planes of his chest, and pops a hip against the door frame. Watson grit his teeth, hearing the light tease in those words. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

Recognition and curiosity. "So you must be-"

"Doctor Watson! Finally come by for a visit, have you?" Mrs. Hudson appears in the doorway, her smile brightening the dim foyer. Her face is smoothed of its worry lines, and her shoulders hang loose. Watson is surprised to see her so at ease, when the antics of her tenant normally keep her in a panicked tizzy. "Mrs. Hudson! You look wonderful."

She gives the stranger a pointed look, and he steps aside with palms raised in mock surrender. A strangely intimate gesture, Watson can't help but notice. He moves into the foyer with little prompting, pulling the door closed behind him. Mrs. Hudson splays her arms wide for an embrace. He falls into her, wrapping around it and soaking it up. "It's lovely to see you, dear. I'll put on a pot of tea, your favorite." Her eyes are crinkled into crescents, and Watson feels that damnable ache.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I've been away for too long."

"Her chamomile is delightful, isn't it?" The man is waggling thick brows at Mrs. Hudson, playful and familiar. She flaps a dismissive hand, but her cheeks fill with pink. "Oh, hush. You flatter this old woman too much." She chuckles, disappearing into the kitchen with her skirt swishing around her legs. "Too much? Never!" He calls after her, laughing. Watson stares searchingly for a short moment.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

Green eyes shine at him. "Ah, how rude of me. Wiley Demone', but Wiley is just fine." He extends a massive hand. Watson shakes it, a tinge of reluctance prickling through his fingertips. "John Watson, it's a pleasure." He forces out, tasting the blatant lie as it squeezes through his teeth.

"The pleasure is all mine. Sherlock has told me much of you and your adventures together." His mouth softens around Holmes' name, and his eyes mist over with something deep and balmy. It's a look Watson is intimately familiar with. "So Holmes does still reside here."

"Of course. This is his home, I'm merely a temporary guest. Though I am hoping to make this into something more permanent. I've grown a bit fond of Sherlock, my life has never been quite so interesting." His grin is all teeth. Watson seethes.

"Doesn't he drive you mad? A man can only handle so much of Sherlock Holmes, before he either loses his patience or his sanity."

"Maybe you, Doctor, but I handle him just fine. What is life without challenge?"

Watson feels his heart drop into his stomach. His mistakes have come back to haunt him.. His replacement is staring him in the face, for God's sake. He wants to say something, _anything_, but Mrs. Hudson calls out from the kitchen. "Doctor Watson, would you mind helping me with these biscuits?"

"Of course." He says numbly.

"I'll inform Sherlock of your arrival, if he isn't already aware." Wiley smiles again, and ascends the staircase one heavy clop at a time. Watson follows him with his eyes, hatred gathering in his chest like black storm clouds. He turns and marches into the kitchen with squared shoulders, offering Mrs. Hudson a respectful nod. He won'tbe bested.

She gestured to the flattened dough spread across the cutting board. "Would you mind pressing out a few biscuits?"

"I would never mind, Mrs. Hudson." Never. Mrs. Hudson was a woman worth the trouble, what little trouble there was. He traverses the short distance to the cutting board, and takes a circular cutter in hand. "I see it didn't take long to give up my room." He says this lightly, a joke. But his heart turns leaden and heavy.

"He needed a place to stay, and I like to think I'm a fairly hospitable woman. But fairly hospitable or not, that man could charm a starving man into giving up his last loaf." _Charming_. Watson wanted to cringe.

"He seems like a well enough fellow. How long has he been..." He cleared his throat of its sudden thickness. "...living here?"

"Almost a month and a half now. He's been such a delight, always helping with the chores and keeping Mr. Holmes in line. I haven't had a single broken dish in two weeks!" Keeping Holmes in line? No onecan control Sherlock Holmes, the man is like a force of nature. A tsunami rearing up, falling down onto hard earth with crushing splashes.

"That's...impressive. Holmes is not a force easily controlled." He chokes.

"Which is why I'm so grateful."

"And where did you find this charming delight?" The words burn like acid. Mrs. Hudson laughs, and he presses the cutter into soft dough with a harsh twist. "It was Mr. Holmes who found him." She paused, her hands stilling over the kettle. "Well...I suppose it was _he _who found _Mr. Holmes_."

Watson glances over with a furrowed brow. "How so?"

Her face seems to age before his eyes. "He was on another case for Scotland Yard. Of course he was very tight lipped about the whole affair, but I'm no fool. I knew he was nosing around in something dangerous." Her fingers tighten around the finespun handle of a teacup. "He mentioned meeting some informant at the shipyard, I'm not certain which one."

"He went alone?" He wants to break something. Watch it crack, crumble, and bleed. Sherlock should know better, should always have back up. But Watson knew Sherlock, and he knew the man was too stubborn to ask for a helping hand. A watchful eye. Watson was supposed to be that helping hand, that watchful eye.

"Yes, as much as I urged him not to. You may have settled down, Doctor, but Mr. Holmes is still very much dedicated to the law. He is going to do what he wants to do, even if he's alone when doing it." She isn't accusing or insulting, but he hurts. He's again reminded of his failure, his mistake. "And something...happened?"

Mrs. Hudson slaps her palm against the countertop, a furious scowl looming over her brow. "The stubborn fool went and got himself shot! He probably wouldn't be puttering about upstairs right now if not for Doctor Demone'!"

He thinks he stumbles, but he can't be sure. Blood rushes in his ears. He feels hot. "Shot?" Deep breaths. Breathe deeply.

"It was terrifying, seeing him like that. There was so much blood." Her eyes were glossing over. "The bullet pierced one of his major arteries, and if Wiley hadn't of found him when he did..." She can't say it, and Watson is grateful. Saying it aloud makes it real. _Inhale_. _Exhale_. _Remember to breath_.

He scrambles for a change of topic. "He's a doctor then?"

"A surgeon at St. Mary's. One of the best. He's taken very good care of Mr. Holmes, had him up and about in no time at all."

Wiley is a doctor. A bloody fucking doctor. One of the _best_. Wonderful. Lovely. Perfect. And he's been taking _very _good care of Holmes. _His _Holmes, _his _best friend, _his _priority, _his_- Watson grinds his teeth. "That's wonderful."

x

Wiley knocks, lest Sherlock fire some manner of poison dart upon his unauthorized entry. He hears a low muttering through the door, and takes that as an admission. He finds his flatmate sprawled across the tiger skin, legs flung open and arms stretched above his head. He takes a short moment to appreciate the stripe of toned stomach exposed to him.

"Do stop staring, Doctor. I might develop a complex." Sherlock drawls, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"My apologies. I'll try not to make a habit of it."

A quiet snort. "I'm not certain as to what you find so interesting on my person. Whatever the item, I'll gladly hand it over." He murmured, his irises flickering rapidly over the ceiling tiles. They pause on a far left tile. "Who was at the door?" He takes great pains to sound indifferent.

"An old friend of yours."

Sherlock scoffs. "I have no such thing." And he sounds offended, as if the notion of friendship is a silly one. Laughable. Ridiculous. Wiley cocks a finely dark eyebrow. "Oh, then I suppose I should send Doctor Watson on his way?"

"Watson? Here? Now? At this very moment?" Honeycomb eyes grow sharp and round. Sherlock kept supine on the pelt, but his body tightened and curled like a fresh bow string. Wiley frowned, a teaspoon of jealousy splattering his innards. "Yes, Sherlock, at this very moment. He's downstairs with Mrs. Hudson." He pads across the room, and settles in front of the crackling hearth. Sherlock is a scant step away, and the heat of their blood mingles in the narrow space.

Sherlock slackens into the pelt, apathy draping over his face like a sheet. "Perhaps he left something behind." He knows this not to be the case, but he won't speak the alternative.

"Is it so hard to believe this could be a social visit? You two were close, once upon a time." Wiley speaks it for him. Sherlock flops onto his side, giving his back to his flatmate. Sulking. "Watson has concluded his business at Baker Street. He has no reason to return."

"It was more than a mere business transaction." As much as he wishes it to be just so simple. Wiley frowns, his jaw spasming. As far as he's concerned, John Watson had willingly relinquished his right to be here. At Baker Street, and _at the side of Sherlock Holmes_.

"Was it?" Sherlock huffs. Like a stubborn child.

"It was."

"I'm inclined to disagree."

Wiley laughs at the predictable reply. "Color me shocked."

"Sarcasm is the language of the witless, my good man." Sherlock twists around to face him, his mood considerably lightened now that he has delivered a proper insult. Wiley flicks him on the nose, a playful punishment of sorts. "I think of it as a natural defense against idiocy. Or obstinacy, in this case."

Crisp silence, and then a loud sigh. Sherlock spares him a _look_.

"I will not waste precious seconds arguing something so trivial. I'm on the verge of a major breakthrough, and your presence is..."

"Deliciously distracting?"

"Unwelcome."

Wiley rears back in mock hurt. "Careful, Sherlock. Words can wound."

He spots a rebellious spiral of dark hair standing on end. His hand is moving, and he doesn't bother to stop or think. Wiley entangles his fingers in a thicket of curls. Warm, soft, like chinese silk.

"Wiley?" Sherlock looks confused, innocently so. He realizes his mistake. He jerks back with a shameful flush, glaring holes in the tiger skin. "I'm sorry-"

And the door is suddenly squeaking on its hinges, Mrs. Hudson and one John Watson filing into the room. "We've brought the afternoon tea." She smiles too big, oblivious to the sudden coiling tension. All Watson can see is the closeness between them, so little distance. He meets those dark eyes for the first time in two months, and his tiny world is opening up into a grand space.

"Holmes."


End file.
